


The Faculty of Loss

by forthewidowsinparadise



Category: Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda - Becky Albertalli
Genre: Angst, Car Accidents, Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 06:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13289199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthewidowsinparadise/pseuds/forthewidowsinparadise
Summary: After the unexpected loss of his boyfriend, Simon is launched into his first experience with grief. He retreats into himself, until he finds himself reaching out to Bram's mother.





	The Faculty of Loss

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my good friend, [solarwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solarwolf) for beta-ing this fic.   
> Content warning: major character death, descriptive open-casket funeral scene

As his adolescence reached its end, Simon still had learned very little of death. He knew of the art of tragedy; the agony in Romeo’s cries, the mourning in Sufjan’s lyrics, a breakdown on-stage. How the body failed was no mystery, nor how the body decomposed, but the sensation of seeing a loved and lifeless face? 

In movies and music and in other’s eyes, he’d felt grief second-hand, but never had he owned the feeling himself. He was lucky. His parents were healthy, all four of his grandparents were still mowing their own lawns; loss was an ailment of older people. People who expect it. People who had lived long enough to be well-equipped when the time comes for their loved ones to go. Simon didn’t think he’d experience grief until well into his adult years. 

He’s eighteen when he does.

“Leah? Leah, it’s—whoa, Leah, calm down.” His turn for tragedy comes for him at two in the morning on a Sunday, his phone held at a safe distance from his tired ears. He had picked up to a loud, distraught Leah, and is having a hard time picking out real, English words from her gurgling sobs. “What the fuck is going on? Are you okay?”

“It’s…oh, God.” She can’t put herself together enough to speak. It’s all very unlike Leah. “Simon, I don’t know how to—“ 

Uber protective of Leah since their heart-to-heart in the WaHo parking lot, something in Simon’s sleep-raddled brain clicks, and he’s racing to figure out what’s wrong with her. He wonders if it’s a real, genuine meltdown—if Leah’s finally lost it. Is it school? They _are_ seniors, and he too has been stressed beyond an inch of his life. And he has support. He has a boyfriend to help him through, and maybe now Leah needs him that same way—minus the desperate bouts of cuddling; as her girlfriend, that’s Abby’s department. 

“It’s okay, Leah. What is it?” He says, confident he’s made the only reasonable assumption. “What do you need help with? The English project? Hilliard’s lab? I heard that was hell.”

“God no, Simon.” There is a bit of a huff in her gurgling. “It’s not…I need to t-tell you, but…”

His heart goes cold. “Did something happen to your mom?”

“No, no, I—“

He suddenly feels like laughing. “Did _Koe no Katachi_ finally get subbed in English?”

“No!” Her voice gets clearer, mucous purged by a shot of anger. Simon immediately stops laughing. “Jesus, Simon this isn’t a _fucking_ guessing game, it’s _serious._ It’s Nick.” She finally wheezes out. “And Garrett, and Bram. They—“

Her moment of composure passes as quickly as it came. _Oh._ Simon thinks, and it’s all the energy his brain is able to exert. He has stopped formulating guesses. He has started accumulating this horrible gut feeling; the only word that comes to mind is _wrong._

Leah doesn’t cry—she just doesn’t—so to hear her weep so violently; to hear his friends’ names in that voice. To hear his boyfriend’s name. “Leah?” He can feel how small his voice is. Everything feels wrong. “Leah, what happened?” 

Suddenly there is a shuffling in the receiver and Leah’s crying gets distant. “Simon?” Comes a new voice.

“Abby?” 

Simon’s blood runs cold. They switched for coherence, which means there is something Simon really needs to know, and needs to hear clearly. If it is so important—if it can’t even wait until morning—it can’t be good. _Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong._

Simon on the verge of ending up in a panic like Leah’s. “What the fuck is going on?” He pleads, and he doesn’t _really_ want to know, but he knows he’ll be told sooner or later. Since Leah hadn’t given him anything but the stress of the impending, he needs it to be sooner or he’ll lose it. “Please, please tell me what’s wrong. Leah said it was the guys, and…and Bram. Are they okay? Please tell me—” 

“Honey.” Abby’s voice is careful—too comforting, too motherly. Unsettling. “We’re, um…we’re at the hospital.”

His brain drops and his heart jumps until they crash, sticking together in his throat. “What?” One, choked word is all the mass lets through.

“There was an accident. The boys—“

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong:_ he was right. It was all wrong. 

The story reaches him in chunks, like the parts of vomit that aren’t bile. A night practice and a car filled with teenaged soccer players. The McDonalds drive-through. That one, infamous blind-spot at the exit. A drunk driver going eighty in a fifty zone. The sound of bending metal.

At eighteen, Simon learns what real panic feels like.

It is so intense that he doesn’t even remember putting on shoes. He’s suddenly in his car, pulling onto the highway, before Abby has even finished explaining. His phone bounces on the passenger seat, still screeching with Abby’s voice and open to his family group chat. 

_Gone to hospital…bram and nick in accident…don’t know when I’ll be home._

 

~~~

He doesn’t go home; not for two days. Not until the doctors have cast Nick’s broken arm and lectured Garrett on nursing a concussion. Not until Abby comes and Abby goes—until Leah reluctantly leaves Simon’s side to get some sleep. She suggests he take a nap as well. 

He tries but, at most, he sleeps for ten minutes. The chairs are too hard and his stomach won’t stop rumbling—his body is hungry but he has no appetite. Before she left, Abby made him drink some orange juice. Leah forced a muffin on him, but he only nibbles at the crumbs. Mostly he just sits still and counts the tiles on the ceiling, and thinks. Thinks of Bram in the room across the hall and Bram’s mother next to him, who is a less than comforting presence. 

He feels like he should talk to her—comfort her—but he doesn’t want to talk. _He_ wants to be comforted. He’s afraid, he’s angry. He wants to cry and yell and be held, but he can’t, because she—of all people—will not tell him it will be alright. If anything, she needs someone to say that to her—someone who believes it. 

So Simon stays silent, and festers in the non-verbal distress they share. He wonders if she feels worse than or the same as him. She hasn’t changed her scrubs in tens of hours, and Simon can relate to the filthy feeling. He is still wearing the same jeans and hoodie as when he’d arrived, and feels like he is sitting in a mud puddle of sweat, grease and fear. When Simon looks over at her, he gets lost in the ridged furrow of her brow. Not to seem odd, he averts his gaze, but keeps it in mind that her puddle may be just a tad deeper than his. 

Soon, his thoughts drift back to his own restlessness, and he glances at the clock as it strikes three. Forty hours. Two hours shy of two days, he’d been sitting on the hard ICU waiting room chairs and lying on the hard waiting room chairs or sitting restlessly by Bram’s bedside. What the chairs were like in the hospital room? Simon didn’t note an adjective, what with his boyfriend comatose in front of him. That was an indescribable kind of discomfort.

Needless to say, he’s tired of sitting around. He’s antsy—his back is aching and his chest throbs with anxiety—and he’s shaky when he stands. “Would you like anything from the canteen, Ms. Akpabio?” He says, rising carefully to his feet.

Bram’s mother doesn’t even look up, preoccupied with picking off her nail polish. She watches the wall, but she picks—scratch, scratch, scratch—electric blue chips falling onto the linoleum. Simon says her name again, to the same effect, then remembers something from their first and only substantial meeting—a mother-of-the-boyfriend pleasantry, if you will.

“Marina?”

As if it had been a friend coming to comfort her, Marina looks up with tired eagerness. When she notices it’s still just Simon, it’s only tired and a little artificial. “Sorry, Simon.” She tries an exhausted smile. “What were you saying?”

“I, um…I need to take a walk.” Simon says, body not as tired, but mind too drained to put up any sort of front. His voice had been small since his discussion with Abby. “I’m going to go get some coffee. Would you like some?” 

Her smile seems to sap the life from her, but she holds it up. “No, thank you. I don’t drink coffee.”

“Tea?”

“No, I’m alright, dear.”

“Okay.”

He got her a granola bar and an orange juice, because he noticed she hadn’t eaten in hours. He knew it was only crumbs in this situation, but if could give her a _good_ surprise, maybe they could both feel better. And maybe, if they felt better, they would have more hope.

The doctor is in the waiting room when he gets back. At eighteen, Simon learns that any face—no matter the features, or the colour, or the age—will contort horrifically when their tears are ones of mourning. Marina cries like nothing he’s ever seen before and, without hearing a word, Simon realizes why hope isn’t a medical device. Hope means very little, if anything at all. 

He doesn’t think they could have avoided this with hope. 

~~~

Bram’s funeral is a week later, and Simon has to forcefully wipe himself of emotion to get through it. Leading up to that moment, he had been on his hands and knees for days, begging. Begging to anyone and anything that would listen to take away the maelstrom of feeling inside him. 

The emotions; they weren’t new ones, but ones he never knew could grow so powerful. A sadness that he once thought was a tonne heavy was now only a pound in comparison. Sharp disbelief, the lingering panic, depression: it compounded, and compounded, and compounded. 

He loved Bram—was supposed to care for him—and yet he couldn’t keep him out of the casket. 

Such unwarranted guilt. He always thought that was a trope—a device used in stories to uphold romance in the face of tragedy—and that no person in their right mind would blame themselves for something like this. But Simon supposes he’s not in his right mind as he claws through his brain for something— _anything_ —he could have done. If he had been awake, or across town, or in the car with him—would it have been different? 

With each variation, the scenario doesn’t change. But the feeling doesn’t pass either. The guilt stays despite having nothing to feed on except Simon’s sanity, and that is _not_ romantic. _Nothing_ about this feels romantic, even as he stands by Bram’s open casket, reaching in with hope just as delusional as his guilt. 

He squeezes Bram’s cold fingers, mind frantically trying to find an antidote for the dreadful sensation in his chest. He should know better than to think there is one. That Bram’s jaw will unlock for him; that rigor mortis is only a series of stuck door hinges, fixable with engine lubricant and olive oil. He is old enough to know the time has passed and the metal has rusted to dust, but still, he longs for a bottle in each hand. 

Women tense in their birdcage veils, men wearing wet eyes with their yarmulkes: people touch his shoulders, but he is so sure, if he keeps watching, he’ll see those expressive brown eyes. Maybe there’s a loophole. How to fix this mess in a half-hour program: he thinks to try waking him with the kiss of the prince or the touch of the _Coronation Street_ soulmate. 

Maybe there was a mistake, a pulse too faint to notice. Maybe it’s a prank, or a ploy, or an evil doctor bent on tearing them apart. Maybe it’s Juliet’s elixir. 

Simon knows the fiction of Shakespeare, and that the body will rot before it pinkens, but still he watches for a sign. For brown eyes. Brown like something warm going down your throat. Warm like a memory that pinkens your cheeks in happiness. Shut so rigidly Simon feels shut out, and if ever Friar Lawrence’s gift touched Bram’s lips, Simon knows he’s drunk so much sleep it’s come to death. All Simon has had is a sip of water, but he feels as though he might collapse himself. 

Women asking him if he can stand on his own, men wearing worried eyebrows with their two-piece suits—a tall, dark-skinned woman takes him by the upper arms and takes him to a pew. She moves him with exhausted motions, telling someone to get him a drink with a choked, quiet voice. Then she takes his place by the casket, and Simon watches through tear-blotted glasses as she too lets herself get washed in the beggar’s haze Simon left. 

Marina weeps like Simon hasn’t realized he has been, until she too is led away from the casket. Women who are touching her sadly. Men who offer her empty words. Simon wonders if Romeo would have still ended his life by Juliet’s side if he hadn’t been alone, or if he would have had women and men hold his arms and turn his face. 

Someone pats Marina’s hand, and Simon clenches his own fist. If not for veiled women and men in yarmulkes, he might have chosen Romeo’s dagger, and he knows that Marina would too. At eighteen, he understands why the urge is there in the first place. 

It’s not for love he’d consider it—he wasn’t even sure he believed in heaven, and the romantic glamour TV had glazed over suicide over the years just doesn’t sit well with him. No, this isn’t a response to missing a kiss on the chest, because who even knows if he would get it back in the afterlife. This is a half-baked solution to the staggering pain of loss that just won’t dull. It’s a solution just for Simon, a selfish one. 

He won’t go through with it, but that doesn’t stop the idea from seizing his heart. Not wanting to cry here, leaves the funeral without saying goodbye to anyone living.

~~~

Days go by. Simon’s family dotingly hovers by the door. Nora brings him food and water, and Emily lays beside him when she gets home from work, smoothing his hair. Bieber curls up in the crook of his knees and won’t move, even in the earshot of words like _walk_ and _treat_. Jack sits on the edge of the bed, imparting wisdom and trying relentlessly to pull a laugh from a frown.

It’s nice, even though Simon is numb to it, spending most of his time staring at the split in his curtains, trying to close them with his mind. His curtains are red, so it’s easier to look at them for hours on end then to risk his mind drifting into a world of Blue, blues and browns. Brown, like the untouched muffin on his bedside table; blue, like the Creekwood Varsity Soccer hoodie he’s been wearing for four days straight. Miraculously, through the sweat, it still smells like Bram—like almond body spray and grass stains—and each time Simon gets a whiff he’s overcome. He tries to focus on the red curtains, but they blur from the tears. 

Weeks go by. Impatience. Nora complains that Simon goes to school most days, but she still has to bring supper to his room, and Simon hears Emily cry as they argue. Bieber has become bored, nosing Simon’s hands, knocking his glasses off the bedside table. Jack doesn’t know what else to say, so he and Emily stage a meeting to coax him into talking, and Simon responds with so much anger it comes up his throat like lighter fluid. 

A month is a day later. His room is left in chaos from throwing things, and the crown moulding cracked up the wall when he’d pushed his parents out and slammed the door. Since the funeral, he’d felt this rage stewing inside his cocoon of despair but, for all his lethargy, he never thought it would come out. Now, there are boot scuffs on his bedposts and the inside of his cheeks are chewed to pieces trying to keep himself from screaming. When he sees Bram in his bedroom—or in his shadow on the sidewalk, in the passenger seat of his car, across the English classroom in that empty desk—he doesn’t want to lay down and die in his sleep, but lay down and shred his own legs with his fingernails. 

Apparently people see this in his face—blank and off-putting, like a crime scene left cleaner then when the culprit came. At home, at school, in the whole town: he’s become a source of fear rather than sympathy. Nora avoids him. Bieber is afraid of the screeches of Crywank blasting from his bedroom. Jack peeks in hourly—Emily passing by in the hallway every twenty minutes—but neither of them have said a word since his rampage. Anger is said to wear one into a depression, but Simon’s done it backwards, and he thinks his brain’s disregard of the Stages of Grief itinerary is scaring them. Frankly, he’s scaring himself, but he knows he has no choice but to ride it out. 

“Simon, how are you doing?” 

He looks up from poking fork holes in his sandwich, and sees Abby from across the lunch table, smiling a sad little smile. His friends don’t say much around him lately—afraid for him to lash out at a wrongly placed word, he guesses—but that’s not to say they don’t care. Except, mostly, it’s expressed through sad eyes and pats on the back. Abby hasn’t asked him if he’s okay since Bram first died. 

Because of that, he does try to smile a little bit, for her. He knows by her eyes that it’s a failed attempt; he’s going to lie to her and she knows it. But of course he’s going to lie about how he’s doing. He wants to scream until his vocal cords snap out of place and choke him, but will he be saying that out loud? Fat chance. 

“I’m fine, I guess.” 

“Are you sure?” Nick asks, picking aimlessly at his sling. “You’re kind of keeping to yourself and, um…Nora told us about the meltdown you had a couple weeks ago.”

Everyone at the table is looking at him now, and Simon begins to sweat under the pressure. He opens his mouth—he doesn’t know whether to snap, deadpan or cry. “I didn’t think anything could feel this shitty.” He says, and it’s none of the three. It’s stale—emotionless—and he can’t stand the unsettled looks on his friends’ faces. “Can we just talk about something else, please?” He diverts.

Everyone nods in agreement, before realizing they’d used up all their small talk trying to avoid the topic at the start of lunch. “Um.” Garrett scratches his head. “How do you think Bram’s mom is holding up?” 

“Garrett.” Leah scolds. “Simon said he doesn’t want to talk about…him.”

“Shit, sorry. I thought he meant he didn’t want to talk about _himself._ Sorry, Simon.” 

They try to move on as quickly as possible, but it’s for naught. Garrett’s words stick. _How do you think Bram’s mom is holding up?_ He hasn’t thought about it. Hasn’t thought about her, not since the funeral. 

He does now, and in bed that evening, and it’s yet another horrible feeling. Guilt, he feels, but this time he’s not dreaming of being in a car. He’s with Marina, talking to her, telling her he’s sorry for her loss—their loss. He’s talking to her in the waiting room, on the phone, at the funeral. But that isn’t what had happened in real life, is it?

Fuck. He forgot about her.

He saw himself in her, grabbed the feeling of having an equal, and ran. Knowing someone felt just as shitty as or shittier than he did was a comfort he indulged in, but never shared with her. At eighteen, he learns that he’s allowed to be depressed, and he’s allowed to be angry, but there would always be people there to get him through it. But Marina; it had been just her and Bram for the last ten years. When Simon feels alone, Marina must feel it tenfold. As his mother—the person who made him, the person who raised him—she must be feeling _everything_ tenfold.

And, just like that, it’s back: the chewing need to fix something. For the first time in two months, Simon gets up before noon on a Saturday. His father looks at him strangely as he pulls flour from the pantry, and he sees his mother try to hide a smile over sugar and butter. He doesn’t yet recognize that the path to healing is just beyond the trees. 

He bakes a cake.

~~~

Standing outside of Bram’s mother’s duplex, a lump of tinfoil in his arms, Simon is rethinking his whole, entire plan. He didn’t really think it through in the first place. What if Marina doesn’t want to see him? What if he reminds her of Bram too much? What if she’s angry at him for not talking to her in the waiting room all those months ago?

But, on the other hand, what would he say to her if she does invite him in? Was he just going to hand her this messy, gross-looking cake he made and choke? Oh shit, was it insensitive to make a cake? Cakes are for celebrations, not for condolences. Oh shit, oh shit, he fucked up. He should have made a casserole, or a quiche—anything but a cake. It’s too late now, he’s already rang the doorbell. Fuck, she’s going to hate—

Simon’s mind is still racing when Marina answers the door. He freezes when he sees her face—thinner and bloodhound weary, but still somehow protected from age and ugliness. It was the kindness that did that, along with West African genes and utter surprise at seeing Simon on her doorstep. “Simon?” 

He’s sure he looks flushed and panicked and very, very tired, and his trouble making eye contact only makes it worse. “H-hi, Ms. Akpabio.” He forgets to call her by her first name again, and is so flustered that he thrusts the cake into the empty space between them. “I forgot…I didn’t…I haven’t really gone out of my way to check up on you after, you know. And, I’m…sorry about that.”

Marina, despite it not reaching her eyes, smiles softly. “Don’t be sorry, honey, you don’t have to feel obligated to—”

“I wanted to.” Simon fumbles, and Marina’s smile slightly tints the whites in her eyes. 

“Well.” She says. “Thank you for the visit, Simon. Come in.”

Toeing off his shoes in the doorway, he lays them next to Bram’s favorite pair of Nikes and follows Marina into the living room. It isn’t until she’s offering him a seat that he realizes he’s still holding the cake. “It’s not really much.” He says, handing her the lumpy thing. “But I made this for you.”

Marina pulls back the tin foil a little bit, taking a look at lopsided chocolate haphazardly coated in white icing. She looks like she might laugh, if she weren’t so touched. “Simon, I…”

After keeping to himself for so long, Simon suddenly can’t hold it in anymore. “It’s been so hard, Marina.” He croaks, tasting the hysteria like bitter molasses in his voice. It splits as the tears come to make him blubber, but he no longer cares, he needs it all out. 

“I never, in a million years, thought this would happen.” He rambles. “That my boyfriend would die and I’d be spending my senior year lying in bed sadder than…than anything. But here I am, and there’s nothing I can do about the pain I’m in, and I’m so _angry._ So, unbelievably angry that nobody can even look at me anymore. 

“And I’m angry at myself, because I’ve been so caught up with what _I’ve_ been going through, I forgot that it’s not just me that’s effected by this. You’re his _mom._ Me and Bram, we were only dating for what? Less than a year? I’m not saying I didn’t love your son—I did, so much—but I know that all this that I’m feeling, it’s probably so much worse for you. But I was only ever there for myself, and I feel so selfish—I’m so sorry. 

“But now, I want to fix that. Coming here, I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone.” Simon forces himself to make direct eye contact. “And if you were, and feeling as horribly as I am, I could help in some way. With a…cake.”

She isn’t smiling anymore, but Marina seems to have been shocked into silence. Simon shifts his weight awkwardly in the quiet air, watching uncomfortably as she looks at him. “Crap, sorry.” His voice is small again. “Sorry, I overshared.”

“Thank you, Simon.”

Simon’s head whips up. “What?”

“Thank you.” Marina doesn’t look uncomfortable; she looks moved. “Thank you for the cake, and the gesture behind it. But don’t…” She stops mid-thought, patting the seat beside her. When Simon sits, she touches his forearm, and Simon immediately knows where Bram had learned his sweeter gestures. 

“It’s probably not appropriate to share my feelings with you.” She begins. “But you did with me, and you were a big part of his life, so maybe we _should_ have some sort of conversation about it. I’m…I’m hurting too, Simon. So badly. 

“When Abe’s father and I split up, it was just me and him for a long, long time. And it was supposed to be just us, until he moved out and got married and had a family of his own.” She lets out a long-held-in sigh, but she doesn’t cry. Simon has a feeling she’s cried enough. “He was so good, Simon. He was a listener, quiet, and so…sweet. My friends all warned me about the teenage years, but Abe…he was never anything _but_ sweet. I always felt like he appreciated me. 

“Just a few months ago I caught him rereading some comic books I got him when he was six years old, just because I spent months searching for them, and he still cherished that. God, he loved to read. Did he tell you he wanted to get a PhD in comparative literature?”

“Yeah, he did.” Simon recalls fondly, a small smile playing on his lips. “He was always going on and on about the books we did in English. He was going to be Mr. Wise’s TA this semester, said it would look really good on his applications, since he wanted to be a professor.” 

Simon feels Marina watching him, tracing her eyes along the shallow curve of his smile. “He loved you.” She says.

“I loved him.” Simon answers, without even thinking. He doesn’t even really blush. It’s only a fact, a feeling; a coat he’ll continue to wear, though he’ll never see winter again. The sweat of summer only sticks the fabric closer to his skin, and he can no longer be embarrassed by it, especially not to winter’s mother. “I love him.” He says again.

It helps that Marina doesn’t flinch. “I know.” Her eyes meet his, and they stay there, steady. “I love him too, but please don’t try to compare your pain to mine.” 

“But, Mar—”

“Simon, I’m so glad you stopped by, and I think you are a sweet, thoughtful person to keep me in mind, but who am I—or anyone, for that matter—to say that my hurt trumps yours?” She smiles, and this time it fills her eyes with altruism and grace. “It’s not a competition, and you don’t have to invalidate your own feelings for others’ sake. Talk about what you’re feeling, like you did with me today. Don’t be ashamed, and cry if you have to. That’s the only way I’ve been getting by.”

It’s only when he sees sticky strings of water from his cheeks to his glasses that Simon realizes he’s started crying again. At eighteen, he learns that healing your heart is not achieved by covering it in Band-Aids, but by letting it air out. Letting it bleed out, then flush itself with new blood. Letting it beat too fast and too slowly, sticking your fingers into the chambers and running them along tender memories. Letting other people touch it, guiding your hands along capillaries until they’ve shown you to some kindness. 

Marina places her hand on top of his. “Listen, I was just about to leave when you showed up—a good friend of mine referred me to this support group for people who’ve lost their loved ones in an accident. She went there when her husband died at work.” She stands, picking up her jacket from the back of the loveseat. “Would you like to go with me?” 

Simon nods without any further consideration. “I would love to.”

Marina smiles and, as they slip on their shoes, puts a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “You have your whole life ahead of you, honey. Don’t let this take over but…”

“I’ll carry him with me.” Simon says. “In my heart. Always.”

She squeezes his shoulder. “We both will.”

Simon smiles and, for the first time in a long time, it’s a real smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to say hello or send me a prompt over on my [tumblr!](https://grammarnerdboyfriend.tumblr.com/)


End file.
